


This is the Darkening

by eyres



Series: Breathe Dead Hippo [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: BAMF McCoy, BAMF Spock, Dark, Heed the violence warning, Hurt!Jim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyres/pseuds/eyres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first one. This is the first one he enjoyed. This is the first one he made suffer.  These are the ones Leonard loves.</p><p>Or: The one where Leonard hurts and heals and does both with equal skill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is the Darkening

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really a sequel, more of a companion, to Of Shadows Fallen. But I don't really know if you'll be less confused if you read that first. 
> 
> It fills in more of the back story, but I imagine I'll keep writing bits and pieces of this universe as I get inspired.

_This is the first one_.

 

_A scrap of a towel, flecked with purple blood, pinned in the uppermost corner._

 

F’Aposians have four limbs, six hands, 32 fingers, three spindly legs, and two hearts. They breathe through a series of gills beneath flabby necks. There are nine liters of dark purple blood pumping through their paper thin veins, just beneath soft white, translucent skin that glows in the dark, evolution from the years they spent living in caves.

 

These are the things the medical briefings didn’t cover: when Leonard pushes a knife into the alien’s rotund chest, just over their primary heart, the blood vessels burst like a thousand tiny water balloons, all over Leonard, all over the white sterile room, all over the clear window overlooking the laboratory.

 

The sound is wet and Leonard spits when some lands in his mouth, dropping the knife. The blood tastes like salt and metal and dirt and it’s stringy and sticky where it gets on his hands. When he fumbles with lab controls made for six hands, his fingers are too slick and they slip and skid across the smooth, light metal.  There’s a towel draped over the scrub station so he mops his hands and manages to get the vacuum-sealed door open.

 

Jim is strapped to an upright steel table, like those dead pigs Leonard remembers dissecting his first year in med school. He’s breathing (Leonard knows this because of what looks like an archaic tube in his mouth and the squiggling lines on the machines in the control room), skin white as the walls and his eyes taped closed. Three large bore needles are in his skull, two tubes in each arm going to murky bags hanging underneath the table.

 

He can’t look at Jim’s left leg. There are large chunks of muscle and skin missing, like they butchered it in pieces, with drainage and suction tubes keeping the open wounds moist and unhealed.

 

F’Aposians have medical technology that makes the Federation’s tech look like a fucking child’s doctor set. It’s what got them into this mess. Leonard hates all of it - hates that he doesn’t even know how to get Jim free.

 

Right now, he needs to believe that Jim is sedated far beyond pain. He gets the table laying flat, skates his hands over Jim’s face. “Jim. Jim, I’m here now. Okay? You just keep sleepin’ and I’ll have you outta here in no time.” He brushes a kiss between the ugly needles and Jim doesn’t twitch.

 

He checks his watch.  Eight minutes until Spock would arrive with the beaming device. Jim has to be ready to move. 

 

There’s no choice but to tuck what he can of the adjacent machines against Jim’s body. He’ll need time to figure out what goes where and how and why back on the _Enterprise._  

 

“Hold on, darlin’, not too much longer now.” He presses his lips to Jim’s forehead again and then stumbles back to Observation room to try to gather any information he can about whatever they were doing.

 

Purple blood sticks to his shoes as he steps over to where the F’Aposian is still twitching on the floor. The alien is squelching out shrill, wheezing moans between gills soaked in blood, white yellow eyes rolling desperately up at him.

 

Leonard finds the knife he dropped beneath the control panel, locates the secondary heart in the bloated abdominal cavity, and presses the blade slowly in. More blood vessels burst, purple blood going all up and down his front.  When the secondary heart is pierced, there’s a sucking noise and the webby network of veins collapse inward, leaving black shriveled lines.

 

The F’Aposian stops gurgling.

 

* * *

 

 

_This is the first one he enjoyed._

_A thin wire woven into the tapestry, still stained._

 

The F’Aposian scientist is sitting at a wide, black desk, like the evil villain in one of those old earth comics. Behind him, artificial sunlight streams in from the window overlooking the vast cavern, turning his semi translucent skin a watery mauve. He looks up when Leonard comes in, buggy white eyes flickering yellow as his secondary eyelids twitch.

 

“Human,” he greets in a low monotone, like Leonard is barely more sentient than vermin. “Did you come to get the project results? We were able to make quite good progress before your carelessness allowed our test subject to be stolen.”

 

Near as Leonard can tell, F’Aposians see ten times the amount of colors in two more dimensions than humans do. To them, all humans are barely distinguishable beige blobs of waxy skin with a pathetic amount of limbs – disposable, interchangeable, barely intelligent life forms made for experiments and disposal.

 

It’s what he was counting on.

 

He clears his throat. “Yeah. The project results. Yes. As much detail as you can provide.” He pauses, the next words tasting of sawdust and shit and the cold air of the laboratory room he had carried Jim from.  “The Federation thanks for your services and regrets any inconvenience the terrorists caused.”

 

The F’Aposian waves one of his two fingered hands. “Just deliver him back to us as soon as possible. He still has uses – we were most fascinated by his varied responses to pain. And, of course, the augment blood still in his circulatory system.” He reaches into a drawer and lays three data chips on the desk. “I trust you will find everything you need.”

 

Leonard slips them into his pocket with one gloved hand, just as the artificial light outside the window suddenly extinguishes.

 

Spock is prompt as usual.

 

The F’Aposian turns toward the window, startled, and Leonard takes the long, thin wire he’d slid into his pocket (the only weapon that could make it passed the F’Aposian weapon detectors), slipping it around the flabby neck gills.

 

Leonard yanks, crossing the wires and dragging down against the thick neck. He uses all his weight to force the bigger alien backward over the desk, bending his head close to one of the thin aural cavities. “This,” he whispers, feeling hoarse and broken, “is your payment for services rendered, doctor.”

 

Thin blood vessels give under the pressure and spindly arms flap around like a wild chicken’s wings. Leonard tugs harder, feels the flesh give and squelch, blood oozing down the wide shoulders as the straining gills flutter desperately for oxygen. Great bubbling noises, interspersed with high pitched whistling from the alien’s blocked vocal chords, come as non oxygenated blood thickens and slows.

 

Leonard closes his eyes. The sticky purple blood rolls down his trembling fingers and for the first time in three weeks, the hot anger in his gut cools to something manageable. He sucks in a breath between his teeth, smells the dying alien and thinks _this is for you, Jim, okay? I know it won’t fix you but they’ll all be dead and maybe you’ll feel a little safer._

 

And, the part he barely admits, even in his own mind, _this is for me, because my best friend is never going to be the same and my entire world is dark now._

 

It takes 46 seconds until the F’Aposian stops shuddering, until his arms stop flapping, until his gills stop flexing, until his mouth stops letting out that horrid, pained whine.

 

When the heavy body thuds at Leonard’s feet and he turns to leave the office, the horror at this new world is flickering up again and Leonard wishes it had taken twice as long for the alien to die.

 

* * *

 

_This is the first one he made suffer._

_The red sleeve of a Starfleet security uniform sewn into the middle._

 

Spock stands against the wall, hands neatly folded behind his back, like he hadn’t just wrestled a screaming man onto the steel table in the center of the room. “You have one hour, Doctor, before our ship’s signal will no longer be blocked by the moon and we must leave or risk detection.”

 

“Got it, Spock, one hour.” Leonard lays the hypos he brought with him out on the wooden side table. “It’ll be enough.” His hands don’t shake anymore and his heartbeat is barely above normal.

 

“You should go back to the ship,” he says as he thumbs the straining artery in the man’s neck (mid fifties, 20 kilos of extra weight jiggling in his belly, balding hair and squinty eyes and a flabby mouth that won’t stop shrieking), “make sure Jim is still asleep. He won’t like it if he wakes up alone.”

 

It’s an excuse. Jim won’t wake up. Leonard measured the sedative himself. He hates leaving Jim alone. But, sometimes (this time), it is unavoidable and then it’s best to just leave him sleeping quietly. The truth is, he doesn’t want Spock to see this.

 

Even after everything they had been through, there were some facets of death Spock did not grasp.

 

When Spock had first seen Jim on that table in that godforsaken laboratory (Leonard still sees it in his nightmares, sterile and horrific) his eyes had broken for only a few seconds before his lips had pressed together like iron. His hands had been steady when he’d cradled Jim’s face in a brief, shallow meld. After, he had lifted his head and said, so calm and precise, “Doctor, he is very frightened. Give me a moment to settle his mind.”

 

He had left, shortly after, to clear their path to the outer room of the F’Aposian laboratories where they could beam out. When Leonard had arrived just eight minutes behind him and pushing Jim on a stretcher, there had been thirteen bodies of scientists piled around him and purple blood stringing up the walls. Spock hadn’t even been breathing hard.

 

Spock killed like he lived, precise and clean and quick.

 

This was not going to be quick, clean or precise.

 

Spock’s dark eyes level at him from across the room. Leonard sees the jagged, broken pieces that match his own, understanding. The Vulcan nods and comes to the other side of the table, reaches across the bound, sobbing man and presses a fingered kiss to Leonard’s jaw. It’s a benediction and a promise and a _thank you_ and _I will be there when you come back_ tingling over his skin.

 

And, as their prisoner shakes and cries between them, Leonard presses a human kiss to the long fingers as they withdraw. These gestures, all of this, is new and weird and nothing more than gentle touches and kisses born of a mutual need for comfort and understanding and someone who isn’t scared of all the broken pieces.

 

This is what they both need.

 

Then, Spock vanishes in gold, and Leonard presses the hypo to the artery in the man’s neck, hears the familiar hiss as it releases.

 

“You are gonna die,” he says, letting his drawl strengthen. He thinks of Jim shakily relearning to walk with his hands wrapped around Leonard’s arms. “But my momma taught me to be a gentleman, so Imma give you a choice here. Give me the names of at least two of the people on the F’Aposian Peace council and you’ll slip away easy. Or, in about 45 seconds, your blood is gonna start to boil and form pustules that’ll lift your skin up and away from your muscles until it starts sloughing off you like a snake.”

 

Leonard smiles so all his teeth show. “Honestly, I hope you choose the second option. I can get the names from the next guy.”

 

Forty-five minutes later, Leonard stuffs the leftover hypos in his pockets and comms Spock, fingers leaving bloody streaks on his communicator. “One to beam out.”

 

Spock meets him in the closet-sized transporter room. His gaze is steady and assessing. “You will need to clean yourself before going to Jim. He will become upset if he sees blood on you.” He pauses, handing Leonard a towel, mouth pursed. Leonard knows he’s not judging – he’s just wondering. “The man did not give you the names we wanted?”

 

Leonard mops the red from his neck and forearms. He’ll need a session in the sonics to make sure he’s clean enough. The last thing he wants is to upset Jim.  “He gave them to me. I just didn’t give him what he wanted.”

 

* * *

 

_These are the ones he loved._

_Not hung on any tapestry – just woven into whatever jagged pieces Leonard has left._

 

“B-Bones, tell me a st-story.” Jim is demanding even when his eyes are drooping from his nightly medication and he’s curling in their bed like a giant kitten. His hair is soft and fluffy from the sonics, pushed back from his forehead so that the round scars from the F’Aposian needles are visible just below his hairline.

 

Leonard sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches down to rub Jim’s arm. The muscle spasms were especially bad today and he can still see the faint trembles. Jim’s eyes are foggy blue from his medication, but the tiny lines of pain are there. “What story, kiddo?”

 

This is tradition now. He’s not sure when it started – probably in those first few horrible weeks on the _Enterprise_ when Jim had been non-communicative and Leonard had talked until his throat was raw and his eyes were burning. Now, the brat seems to think he’s entitled to tales whenever he pleases.

 

“Spock and the v-vol…” Jim hesitates, word sticking in his throat as they often do now. “Volcano.”

 

“That one again?”

 

Long term memories are tricky for Jim. He seems to remember pretty much everything – but often treats them like they happened to a different person. He’ll talk about himself captaining a starship like there had been another person inhabiting his body back then – like the Jim he had been before the F’Aposians was a different man entirely.

 

Sometimes Leonard wonders if that’s true.

 

Jim nods and then clenches his teeth as his bad leg twitches with a muscle cramp.

 

“Easy, darlin’.” Leonard rolls the smaller man onto his back and moves down to knead the thigh muscle that the scientists on that planet had torn to shreds. “You need sleep before you shake right apart.”

 

“Story f-first,” Jim insists. Then he hesitates, eyes darting around the room. “Wh-where is S-spock?” His fingers clench at the blanket.

 

“He’s on a business trip,” Leonard answers, keeping his voice calm and patient like he hadn’t already explained several times while getting Jim ready for bed. “He’ll wake you up to say good night when he gets back.”

 

“W-why’s he gone? I don’t like it when he’s g-gone.” Jim tries to sit up, mouth tensing with pain. “B-bones.”

 

Leonard lifts Jim to a sitting position and draws him into his chest. “Shh, shh. I know but he’ll be back soon. We always come back when we leave, right? Remember? I was gone last night and I came back. Just like in the story when Spock went down to that volcano to save a whole planet. He came back.”

 

Jim hesitates, fingers wrapping around Leonard’s wrists. “Cap-captain Jim b-beamed him up.”

 

“You did. Spock saved the world and you saved Spock.” Leonard strokes the soft hair, trying to soothe the small tremors he can feel. The Jim of before hated it when people went into danger without him – this Jim just wanted everyone to stay safe and near.  “Think you can lay back down now?”

 

“You- you’re staying?”

 

“I’m staying.” Leonard settles Jim back against the pillows. “Tomorrow, Spock and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll make breakfast. What do you want to eat?”

 

Jim bites his lip, unsure. He has difficulty conceptualizing future goals and making decisions, more leftovers from the experiments. “S-sandwiches?”

 

“We can have that for lunch. What about breakfast? Pancakes?” Leonard uses the manual control to dim the light a little.

 

“W-waffles.” Jim fidgets, almost asleep but still fighting. “W-where’s Spock?”

 

“I am here, Jim.”

 

Spock steps from the shadowy doorframe. The bedroom light softens his neutral face, making his eyes seem darker and warmer somehow. His hand brushes the back of Leonard’s bare arm and he feels _it’s done it’s over_ and rage wafting away.

 

Jim is fighting his way upright again, eyes burning blue like the outside of a flame. He grips Spock’s shoulders in a hug. “Y-you came b-back!”

 

“I will always come back.”

 

Leonard scoots away a little, lets himself indulge in watching Spock hold Jim, his pale skin and dark hair contrasting against Jim’s warm tones. Spock always seemed softer with Jim. His jagged edges that match Leonard’s are muted by the warm innocence of Jim. 

 

In these moments, Leonard could imagine a world where vengeance was in the past and the future was cool nights with the stars as far as the eye could see and crickets in long grass and warm days and Jim happy and Spock content. The picture is so pretty and perfect and Leonard just savors and tucks it away. 

 

He always saves these perfect, happy images for those terrible moments when everything feels too sharp and black and small. Those nights when Jim has nightmares, crying and screaming in Leonard’s arms while his bad leg jerks and his hands shake. Those nights, Spock sits helpless, next to the bed, until Jim has calmed enough that Spock can press his hand to his face and lock the terrors away.

 

After those times, when Jim would drift back to sleep still trembling from the nightmare, Spock would lay down on the other side of Jim. His eyes would be huge and dark like all the emotions were squeezing out of him, wringing him dry like a sponge.

 

Sometimes, Leonard would talk then, quiet and low, letting his drawl thicken out like syrup on hot days. He’d tell Spock about Georgia and storms so thick your hair would stand on end. He’d talk about the Academy and how Jim was like fires rolling across the dark plains, hot and bright and devastating. He’d whisper about the future, about peace and home and vengeance and blood spilling until it cooled their anger and they could rest.

 

And, sometimes (only sometimes), Spock would drift off to sleep while he was talking.

 

(He knew Spock was having trouble meditating, resting, centering…whatever that Vulcan hoodoo was that made Spock wind up and go. They didn’t talk about it because _Jim_ was the only thing that was really important – just like they didn’t talk about how Leonard’s shoulder had never been quite right after that Starfleet agent had gotten the drop on them on Orion or how there were shocks of white in his hair now.

 

Anyway, Leonard knew Spock couldn’t really rest anymore – so those times when he could talk Spock to sleep, those were good times.)

 

Now, Jim is drifting off against Spock’s shoulder. For a breathtaking moment, he looks just like he had at the Academy, falling asleep against Leonard’s shoulder after finals. Leonard can almost pretend that they are all together in California and the whole future is big and bright.

 

Spock gentles Jim back to the bed, passing a hand over his quiet face. “He will sleep until morning,” he murmurs.

 

Leonard swallows. “Did you get him?” They don’t talk about _this_ when Jim can hear. But, when he’s asleep, Leonard can indulge that burn to hear how their enemies suffered.

 

Spock doesn’t take his eyes off Jim when he answers. “I dispatched him. Before he died, I was able to obtain three other names of those on the council.” He raises hard eyes to Leonard, “One of them is Vulcan.”

 

Leonard offers his hand. Sometimes, after these missions, Spock will shy from touches and comfort, but Leonard always offers.

 

This time, Spock reaches back, brushing their fingers together with _shame my people hurt my Jim no mercy_.

 

“I’m no farmer but there’s a few bad apples in every orchard.” Leonard shifts and lies down on the other side of Jim. “C’mon. You need sleep.”

 

Spock hesitates but settles down, reaching across Jim to brush Leonard’s cheek.

 

Warm comfort radiates from the touch and Leonard feels sleep tugging. “Jim wants waffles in the morning,” he yawns. “I told him we’d stay with him all day.”

 

Jim shifts, snuffling against his shoulder.

 

“That is acceptable.”

 

Leonard dreams of Jim and Spock and warm breezes and never ending blue sky.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I rewrote the last scene at least three times. Hopefully the final version communicated how compartmentalized Leonard's world now is.
> 
> I promise the next installment will be less violent at least.


End file.
